


Friday I'm in Love

by flowercrownclem



Category: Freaky Friday - All Media Types, The Smiths
Genre: Johnny and Morrissey can't remember Mike's name, M/M, Marrissey, Royce - Freeform, almost, also they fight, and Andy and Mike get married, but then they're in love so it's okay, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2342423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowercrownclem/pseuds/flowercrownclem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morrissey and Johnny are in love. But they hate each other. But they love each other. But they hate each other. But they switched bodies. But they love each other. But what's the drummer's name again?<br/>Marrissey Freaky Friday AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're the One

“Morrissey! C’mon, open up!” Johnny Marr shouted, pounding on the door of his band mate's flat. They were supposed to meet up to discuss some new songs they were working on but Johnny had been knocking for nearly five minutes, standing out in the cold Mancunian air. He knew that Morrissey was normally unwilling to open his door to anyone, but usually allowed Johnny in once he heard him calling.

“Johnny?” came a puzzled voice behind him.

Johnny turned to see Morrissey, standing in a warn coat, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“Where the hell were you?” Johnny asked angrily.

“I went for a walk, why?”

“Why? I’ve been waiting for you for bloody ever, Moz. We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago!”

“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d get here so close to on time.” Morrissey snapped, stepping past him and walking inside. Johnny frowned, following Morrissey up to his room silently.

Morrissey collapsed on the bed, glaring up at the ceiling and folding his arms behind his head. Johnny sat on the floor across from him, moving aside books and clothes to make room for his guitar.

“So what do you have for the riff I gave you?” Johnny asked, picking up the cassette that he’d given the older man a few days before, beside the tape player. Morrissey simply tossed an open notebook towards Johnny, still not looking at him.

“What is this?” Johnny asked, frowning at the messy scrawl that was spread, broken, across the page. He couldn’t make any rhyme or reason from it, no chorus or verses, just chicken scratch and punctuation.

“Song,” Morrissey replied icily.

“What, you’re mad at me now because I was on time?” Johnny asked, standing.

“Well, you could do to be a bit more punctual,” Morrissey told him, sitting up.

“I might be more eager to get here if you actually had something for me to look at, not just scribbles on a page!” Johnny said, his voice rising.

“Like you could write anything better!”

“It wouldn’t be difficult, just find a bunch of rhymes about how much I want to kill myself, a few lines of plagiarism from ancient films, and something about how much I want to fuck James Dean!”

“What? I don’t-” Morrissey blushed.

“Oh, sorry,” Johnny corrected, “Be fucked  by James Dean.”

“You prick! As if you do any more, just copying Keith Richards’ and Lou Reed’s guitar parts. Anyone could do it!”

“I’d like to see you try,” Johnny scoffed.

“Ugh! Get out,” Morrissey frowned, pointing at the door.

“Gladly,” Johnny fumed, roughly grabbing his guitar and leaving. Morrissey threw himself back on the bed, curling on his side. He sighed loudly, glaring at the door.

...

That night, the whole band was going out to dinner to celebrate before Andy and Mike’s rehearsal dinner that was scheduled for the next day. The entire dinner, Morrissey and Johnny had been studiously avoiding looking at each other.

“So, you guys are still coming to the dinner tomorrow night, right?” Mike asked, worried.

“Of course they’re coming,” Andy told him, reassuringly, “It’s our wedding rehearsal. They wouldn’t miss it.”

“They did forget to come to my birthday party last year,” Mike pointed out.

“And they said they were sorry,” Andy said

“Not enough,” Mike mumbled, taking a bite of his food.

After a few moments of silence, Andy looked curiously at Johnny and Morrissey.

“You two aren’t fighting or something, are you?”

Morrissey quickly replied “no” just as Johnny said “yes.”

“Morrissey insulted my guitar,” Johnny said in a voice similar to a child tattling on their sibling.

“Well, I’m sure he-” Andy began.

“Johnny insulted my song writing.” Morrissey piped in.

“You both just need to-”

“Yeah, so what?” Johnny asked. “Any lovesick twelve year old can write poetry. It’s not even a song until it’s set to music.”

“Johnny-” Andy tried.

“Try selling pop stations instrumentals in this day and age,” Morrissey shot back, “You’d be on the streets in seconds.”

“Morrissey-”

“Better than shut up in my room like a hermit!” Johnny shouted, standing sharply and walking out onto the street.

“I’m going home,” Morrissey told Mike and Andy.

“You’ll be there tomorrow, though? You won’t forget?” Mike asked.

“Sure,” Morrissey said, walking away.

“They always forget about me,” Mike said, frowning at the table.

“They don’t forget, they just get… Distracted,” Andy insisted, lacing their fingers together. 

…

When Morrissey got home, he went immediately to his record player. He flipped through stacks of vinyl, looking for something to distract himself with. He searched through the records angrily, muttering the whole time.

“Stupid Johnny, with his stupid guitar and his stupid sunglasses. He just has to go and- ugh!”

…

Johnny arrived at his flat, scowling. He hated fighting with his best friend, but sometimes Morrissey could just be such a twat. He shoved his way into his room, scanning the records leaning against his turntable.

“Stupid Morrissey, with his stupid messy handwriting and his stupid hair! He always has to go and- ugh!”

…

Morrissey growled, flicking the records back into place and stabbing the start button on the record player without looking at the center of the set record.. He sludged back to his bed and flung himself down.

…

Johnny resigned himself to whatever was set on the record player and moved the needle over the first groove, settling back on his heels.

…

“ Closet full of rags, all tucked away in a bed that’s swank, two sedans and the latest sports car plus a lot of money in the bank. Baby, just give me you in a love affair made for two, don't make no mistake about which one I would take .”

…

Morrissey groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. It was the song that Johnny had played him the day they met.

“Not this damn song,” he muttered, glaring at the 45.

…

“You’re the one,” Johnny sang along wryly, sneering at the record player. He pulled his guitar across his lap, picking out the chords and playing them loud and sloppily, shouting over the music. “You’re the one, the only one!”


	2. Switched

The next morning, Johnny woke up confused. He opened his eyes groggily, feeling as though he’d had too much to drink the night before. He blinked slowly, squinting to look around the room but everything looked blurry.

Through the odd haze, he could see not his own room, but Morrissey’s.

What the fuck? he thought,  Did I pass out here last night or something?

He turned over, looking for Morrissey, but found an otherwise empty bed. He raised his hand to scratch his head and felt his hair sticking up in the front. He wondered if he’d fallen asleep with it wet or something, and stumbled to the mirror perched on Morrissey’s dresser.

…

“Holy hell!” Morrissey exclaimed, staring open-mouthed at his reflection. He lifted his hand to rub against his eyes and the reflection that could only be Johnny Marr did the same.

…

“Oh,  god ,” Johnny groaned, falling back onto the bed. “This can’t be real. Shit, maybe if I go back to sleep?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself to sleep.

“Fuck, it’s not working!” he exclaimed, jumping up. He looked back in the mirror, Morrissey’s face grimacing back at him.

Through the house, he heard the sound of the phone ringing. A few moments later, Morrissey’s mother tapped on the door, calling through the door that the phone was for him. He inched open the door, cautiously taking the phone and thanking her.

Once he’d closed the door again, sliding the long cord under the gap, he answered the phone, pulling on Morrissey’s glasses beside the bed and looking back in the mirror at his now clear reflection.

“Hello?”

“Hey, uh, Joh- um, M-morris- er, I mean...” The voice sounded uncomfortably familiar.

“Moz?” Johnny asked.

“Johnny?”

“I guess,” Johnny told him, “Does this mean that you’re, uh, me?”

“I believe so,” Morrissey groaned.

“How?” Johnny demanded.

“Well I don’t know!” Morrissey said, exasperated.

“Maybe if you come over we could figure it out,” Johnny suggested.

“Yeah, I guess,” Morrissey agreed.

Within minutes, Johnny was staring at his own body, sitting across from him on Morrissey’s bed.

“This is fucking weird,” Johnny breathed.

“Yeah,” Morrissey agreed, squinting. “Could you turn down the lights or something? My eyes have been hurting all morning.”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Forgot about that. Here,” Johnny handed Morrissey his black sunglasses. “Put ‘em on.”

“Okay,” Morrissey said hesitantly, pushing them up his nose.

“Damn,” Johnny whispered, leaning forward and turning his head for a better angle. “Do I always look this cool?”

“Um, I guess. I don’t know,” Morrissey told him, frowning. “Why are your eyes so sensitive to light?”

“Oh, uh I wore my sunglasses too much so they adjusted to dim lighting.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it happens.” Johnny was still staring at the Morrissey version of him. “Hold on a second.”

He jumped forward, reaching into his jacket that Morrissey was wearing.

“What are you doing?” Morrissey squawked, trying to bat him away.

“Here,” Johnny handed him a cigarette from his pocket, pulling out a lighter.

“What the hell, Johnny? You know I hate cigarettes. I’m not smoking it.” Morrissey tried to make him take it back.

“No, please? Come on, I really want to see if I look cool when I smoke!”

“No,” Morrissey told him resolutely.

“C’mon, Moz! They aren’t your lungs! You won’t really be smoking it!”

“I am not-” Morrissey was cut off by Johnny shoving the now lit cigarette between his lips.

“Johnny!” Morrissey sputtered, coughing violently.

“You’re not doing it right!” Johnny insisted.

“I’m not doing it at all!” Morrissey told him, “Would you stop it? We need to figure out how to switch back.”

“Yeah, sure, but don’t you think this is a cool opportunity at least? It’s not every day you actually see yourself without a mirror or a camera or something.”

“I mean, I guess,” Morrissey allowed, titling his head.

Johnny stuck out his chin and posed, holding still while Morrissey appraised himself.

“Do I always look like that?” Morrissey asked frowning.

“How?” Johnny asked.

“All, I don’t know, attractive.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Hmm...” Morrissey leaned to look at himself from every angle, taking in his own face. “And here I was thinking I was a dishrag.”

“I can assure you that you are not a dishrag,” Johnny laughed.

“Odd,” Morrissey mused, reaching out a hand to prod at his own nose. Johnny laughed more, capturing his outstretched finger between his own. They both silenced as their eyes met, their fingers twined together.

“So,” Johnny said, clearing his throat and pulling away, “How do we get back?”

“Well, what did you do last night?”

“I dunno, came home and listened to a record then went to sleep.”

“Same.”

“Which record?” Johnny asked.

“Uh, You’re the One,” Morrissey told him, his face flushing.

“Me too,” Johnny frowned.

“Maybe if we..?” Morrissey crossed to his record player and put on the song, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate. Johnny joined him and they sat silently, focused on the music.

“Did it work?” Johnny gritted through his teeth as the needle came to the center of the 45, his eyes still tightly shut.

“Did it?” Morrissey replied, opening his eyes.

“No,” Johnny groaned, slumping down to lie on his back.

“Damn it,” Morrissey muttered, “The rehearsal dinner is tonight and we can’t miss another of the drummer’s big life things or whatever.”

“Yeah, and Andy’s my best friend, I can’t miss him and the drummer’s thing or whatever.”

“I thought I was your best friend,” Morrissey said quietly.

“You  were ,” Johnny told him crossly.

“What do you mean, because of the fight?”

“Yeah,” Johnny mumbled.

“Yeah, well my best friend is… The drummer. Yeah, he’s my best friend now.” Morrissey declared petulantly.

“The drummer?” Johnny laughed, “You don’t even  like the drummer! I’ve never seen you talk to him!”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re best friends. He never talks to me so he never says anything mean.”

“Andy never complains about anything I do and he’s way cooler than you! He lets me borrow his jacket and sometimes he makes me sandwiches! Does the drummer do that for you?”

“No, but now Andy’s just gonna be doing that stuff for the drummer now, so there!” Morrissey finished triumphantly.

“I hate the drummer,” Johnny muttered.

“I hate everyone.”

“You do,” Johnny agreed.

“Except you,” Morrissey noted without thinking.

“Really?” Johnny asked.

“What? No, I-uh, I hate you especially,” Morrissey back-tracked.

“Um, yeah. I hate you too,” Johnny said.

“But anyway, we need to figure out how to switch back.”

“Well I don’t know how. I guess we’ll have to just wait it out.”

“You mean just be each other and hope it wears off in a few days?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Johnny told him.

“Okay,” Morrissey said, settling down. “What do we do now, then?”

“We wait.”


	3. It Was Really Nothing

“Just be cool, no one’s going to notice anything if you just be cool,” Johnny hissed at Morrissey as they entered the rehearsal dinner that night.

“Is cool your only personality trait or something?” Morrissey replied.

“Yes.”

“What about you? You’ve got to act like me,” Morrissey reminded him.

“Oh, I’ve got that figured out. I’ll just make up some random shit as I go. No one ever has any idea what you’re talking about anyway.”

“Hey-” Morrissey started.

“Johnny! Moz! You made it!” Andy exclaimed, running up to hug them both.

“You didn’t forget!” Mike said, surprised.

“Of course we wouldn’t forget...” Johnny trailed off, trying to remember the drummer’s name.

“Mike,” Mike supplied.

“Mike,” Johnny repeated. “I knew that. Of course we couldn’t forget about you!”

“We wouldn’t miss this for anything! Not even if we spontaneously switched bodies for an indiscernible period of time or something!” Morrissey declared. Johnny frowned, kicking at his leg sharply. “Not that that would ever happen though, right?” Morrissey forced a bit of laughter.

“Right? That’d be weird,” Johnny agreed, joining him.

“Okay...” Andy frowned, “Well the toasts are about to start, so we’ve got to go...”

“Yeah, see you two lovebirds later,” Johnny grinned, waving them off.

“I would never say that,” Morrissey told him as they took their seats.

“Say what?”

“Call them lovebirds.”

“They didn’t notice anything, it’s fine,” Johnny replied.

“Just act more like me,” Morrissey said.

The two slumped down in their seats as the first toasts began. With every declaration that love was eternal and that Andy and the drummer were perfect for each other, Morrissey gave a small snort and Johnny followed each with a sharp elbow jabbed into Morrissey’s side.

As the toasts seemed to be wrapping up, Andy stood.

“And now, Johnny and Moz said that they would do a song for us,” Andy announced, smiling at the two of them expectantly.

Shit , Johnny thought,  I forgot about the stupid song! He looked at Morrissey in a panic.

“Oh, um, yeah,” Morrissey agreed, standing and sending Johnny a pointed glance.

“Which song are we doing again?” Johnny hissed out of the side of his mouth, smiling around at the crowd before pulling Morrissey to face away from them.

“William,” Morrissey hissed back.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, why? It’s a wedding.”

“That was my point.”

“Just do it and make sure you act like me,” Morrissey instructed.

“Well, you’ll have to be me,” Johnny handed Morrissey the guitar that was set in the corner for him.

“Sure, easy.” Morrissey pulled the strap over his head. “How does it go again?”

“The chorus will be C G C D Em-”

“Wait, what?” Morrissey said, his eyes widening.

“Don’t worry, it’s ‘easy,’ remember?” Johnny mocked.

“Yeah, sure,” Morrissey paled. “Do you know all the words?”

“Uh, enough...” Johnny shrugged.

“But-” Morrissey started.

“Guys?” Andy called, sounding worried.

“Yes, we were just, um,” Johnny told them, turning around, “saying how happy we were for you both?”

“Yes, so glad that you’re,” Morrissey cringed, “getting married.”

“Uh, Johnny, why don’t you start us off?” Johnny said hesitantly.

“O-okay.” Morrissey stared wide-eyed at the instrument in his hands.  Johnny said C, right? he thought,  That’s the one that looks like a diagonal… I think…

He stretched his fingers across the frets and pulled his thumb across the strings. He didn’t think it sounded half bad, but the way that Johnny cringed told him otherwise.

Then he said G, but what’s G again? Morrissey panicked,  I think I remember D, no one will notice if I just do that one instead.

He made the switch to the next chord and watched as Johnny frowned, huffing out a breath.

“You’re thinking too much,” Johnny muttered under his breath. “I’ve played these songs so many times, they must have some kind of muscle memory that even you couldn’t completely take away. Just let my fingers go where they want to.”

“I’m trying,” Morrissey shot back.

After a few more attempts at playing the few chords he remembered Johnny trying to teach him, Morrissey finally let his (or more accurately, Johnny’s) body take over. It still didn’t sound right, and was still composed fully of sour notes, but it was close enough to the tune that Johnny had something to sing to.

“The rain falls h-hard on a-uh, humdrum town, this town is duh duh duh...” Johnny mumbled, trying to remember the words. He looked at Morrissey who was glaring at him, and then to the crowd who were all looking at the pair as though they were trying to decide whether or not this was a joke. As far as any of them knew, Morrissey had never forgotten a lyric in his life, and Johnny Marr had never played a sour note.

Johnny decided that the best way to brush off his poorly remembered lyrics would be to try and seem as Morrissey-like as possible. He raised his arms and began to swivel his hips, singing “If you like to marry me, and if you like you could buy the rings. She doesn’t care about anything… Except duh duh...”

They both trailed off, standing stone-still as the room went completely silent, the entire party staring at them.

“Johnny’s drunk!” Johnny suddenly burst out.

“Um, so is Morrissey,” Morrissey added.

“Really! See?” Johnny took a few steps forward, walking with exaggerated lack of balance, nearly falling down.

“Yes, we consumed mass quantities of alcohol, right Morrissey? This explains everything.” They both nodded earnestly, stumbling back to their seats.

“Okay, that was...” Andy began.

“Weird,” Mike offered.

“Yeah, really fucking weird. But anyway, I think that’s it for toasts and things, so everybody enjoy your meal.” Andy sat back down, looking at Morrissey and Johnny in confusion.

“Not as easy as you thought, huh?” Johnny asked quietly.

“I sounded pretty good!” Morrissey told him.

Johnny just snorted, “Of course. You were wonderful. Once we switch back I’ll have to be careful that you don’t start doing my part as well.”

“At least I’m not the one who forgot half the lyrics!”

“They’re hard! They’re all,” Johnny waved his hands around frantically, “complicated!”

“Not just a few rhymes and quotes, eh?”

“Shut up,” Johnny shoved his arm, laughing.

When the dinner came to a close, Johnny and Morrissey made their way out to the street with everyone else.

“So what now?” Morrissey asked. “Do I have to go sleep at your house now?”

“I guess we could both sleep at yours if you want,” Johnny told him.

“Sure,” Morrissey agreed and they both went back to his house. It was late so his family had already gone to sleep, saving him from having to pretend not to be himself.

“I can grab a sleeping bag or something and take the floor,” Morrissey said quietly when they got up to his room.

“No, it’s your bed. I can sleep on the floor,” Johnny insisted.

“We can just share it then,” Morrissey reasoned, flopping back onto the bed.

“Sure,” Johnny agreed, joining him.

They lay on their backs in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.

“Johnny?” Morrissey whispered.

“Yeah, Moz?”

“What if we don’t switch back?”

“I don’t know,” Johnny told him truthfully. He wondered what it’d be like to be Morrissey forever and to have Morrissey be him. He wouldn’t really mind being Morrissey all that much, it wouldn’t be terrible, but he didn’t like the idea of Morrissey being anyone but Morrissey.

If Morrissey was in Johnny’s body, he’d never look like himself again. Johnny liked how Morrissey looked. He also wouldn’t be able to sing for the Smiths anymore; his voice sounded different and the fans would be put off if the line up suddenly changed. Johnny liked standing behind him at each show and getting to watch him dance around the stage, singing his heart out. He would miss it.

“I don’t know,” Johnny repeated sadly.


	4. The Wedding

Johnny was the first to wake up the next morning. His face was pressed firmly into a nest of black hair and his arms were wrapped around a small, warm figure. He blinked away the early morning confusion to realize that we was spooning himself.

No, not really himself, but Morrissey. He was spooning Morrissey, and he was strangely okay with it.

“‘Morning,” Morrissey mumbled, stirring. He reached beside him to grab at his glasses groggily, his eyes still closed. Once the glasses were pushed onto his nose, he blearily opened his eyes. They instantly widened as he stared around the room.

“Wow, I really am blind,” he breathed, trying to focus his eyes.

“Yep,” Johnny agreed, pulling them off of his face and putting them on his own.

Once they’d woken up more, they looked at the clock to see that Andy and the drummer’s wedding was in a few hours.

“We’d better get ready,” Morrissey said, getting up.

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed sadly, missing Morrissey beside him.

“I think your diamond necklace is still here, do you want to wear it?” Morrissey asked, poking around his room for something to wear.

“No, you should,” Johnny told him. “You’re me and everything.”

“Okay,” Morrissey said, tossing clothes on the bed.

“Is my turtleneck still here?” Morrissey nodded, rummaging around before adding it to the pile of clothes.

Soon they were both dressed in each other's clothes, Morrissey in Johnny’s turtleneck and necklace and Johnny in an over-sized jacket and button-up.

“Here,” Morrissey slung a string of beads over Johnny’s head, straightening his collar as he went.

“Thanks,” Johnny smiled.

Morrissey watched as Johnny crossed to the mirror, smiling as he ran his fingers over the necklace. Morrissey closed his eyes, imagining that Johnny was really standing before him, completely himself. He could perfectly picture the way that his smile would stretch across his face, crinkling at the corners, and the small shadows that his eyelashes would cast on his cheeks.

What if he would only ever be able to imagine it? What if Johnny never looked like himself again? Morrissey didn’t want him to change- he thought that Johnny was perfect just how he was.

“Johnny, I-” Morrissey started, just as Johnny said, “We’d better get going if we want to get there on time.”

“Yeah, okay,” Morrissey agreed.

“Were you going to say something, Moz?”

“No, it’s nothing.”

…

When they got to the wedding they were immediately shepherded to a back room by the coordinator. Johnny was supposed to be Andy’s Best Man and Morrissey was Mike’s “Man of Honor.”

Once they were reminded of which order to stand in and not to walk too fast, they were told to wait around until they heard the music start.

“Mozzer, could I talk to you for a second?” Johnny said nervously, nodding towards the corner.

“Of course,” Morrissey followed him.

“Moz, I just- I realized something these past few days.” Johnny bit his lip.

“What is that?” Morrissey asked.

“I don’t like fighting with you. I don’t think that we ever should again.”

“I don’t like it eithe-”

“I wasn’t finished,” Johnny broke in. Morrissey made a gesture for him to continue. “I realized that I don’t really care whose bodies we’re in or whether I’m in yours or you’re in mine, although to be honest you would totally be a-”

“Johnny,” Morrissey cut in warningly.

“Right, yeah, sorry, back to the point.” Johnny took a deep breath, “I love you, Moz.”

“I love you too,” Morrissey grinned.

“Really?” Johnny asked happily.

“Of course,” Morrissey told him, reaching a hand to cup his cheek and leaning in to kiss him. Johnny leaned into his touch, wrapping his arms around Morrissey’s waist and grinning.

When they pulled back, Morrissey nearly fell down. He felt lightheaded, more than he would have from any kiss- no matter who from. He shut his eyes, bringing his hand to his forehead and stumbling. Beside him Johnny was doing the same and the two of them slumped together, steadying each other.

When Johnny was able to stand straight, he looked up, meeting the blue of Morrissey’s eyes.

“Wait- Moz! You’re eyes are blue again! And you’re tall!” Johnny exclaimed excitedly.

“I’m not tall, you’re just short,” Morrissey reminded him.

“Whatever, we’re back in our own bodies again!” Johnny leapt into Morrissey’s arms, wriggling around in delight.

“We’re back in our bodies and we’re in love! This is a wonderful day!” Morrissey grinned.

“You know what I think would make it even better?” Johnny asked.

“What?”

“If you married me.”

“You know what?”

“What?”

“Yes.” The pair hugged tightly, dancing around in excitement.

“Are you two okay?” Andy asked from behind them, trailed by the drummer.

“Oh, we’re great!” Morrissey told him.

“Andy, Mike, Mozzer and I realized that we’re in love and-” Johnny began.

“Well, congratulations. It’s about time,” Andy said.

“Andy, please don’t interrupt,” Johnny frowned. “We realized that we’re in love and we’re going to get married- right now. So if you two wouldn’t mind, this is our wedding.”

“Wait, what the hell?” Mike asked. “You can’t steal our wedding!”

“Are you really going to stand in the way of true love?” Morrissey asked indignantly, wrapping his arms around Johnny.

“I- Andy?” Mike turned to his fiance, expectantly.

“I mean, we can’t stand in the way of true love,” Andy reasoned.

“But our whole families are here!” Mike tried.

“Aw!” Johnny exclaimed, smiling, “I think the four of us have become like a family too!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“We’re going to go check with the coordinator and make sure that everything is in order for our wedding,” Morrissey told them, pulling Johnny with him.

“This isn’t your wedding!” Mike cried.

“See you in a minute, drummer!” Johnny called back happily.

“Wow, I heard you two are getting married! Congratulations!” came a small voice beside Johnny.

“Who are you?” he asked the boy, who was carrying a basket full of flower petals.

“I’m Craig,” he reminded them. “I’ve been in the band for, like, a month. Andy said I could be the flower girl!”

“Hmmm,” Morrissey looked at the boy, trying to remember him, “I would think I could remember a member of my own band.”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t forget a band member, and our band is just Morrissey, me, and Andy.”

“We’ve got to run, lot’s of preparations for our wedding!” Morrissey and Johnny sped off, finding the coordinator and filling him in on the change of plans.

They were wed within the hour, a handsome groom and a sad veiled one, back in their own bodies and madly in love.

 

The end.


End file.
